Hag
by Offreus
Summary: It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out thing - two months, tops. Remain incognito, find what they needed, and continue running. But Dakan and his family never factored in the wolves of Beacon Hills, they were never involved in the plan. Now this one major slip is going to cost them, and Dakan stands to lose everything. Takes place in season 3.
1. Chapter 1 - Crows and Classrooms

**Wooo new teen wolf fanfic let's go**

 **UPDATE: Minor edit/changes right at the start to Dakan's history. I realised I screwed myself a little bit while writing the third chapter so I've come back to fix it.**

 **Summary:** It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out thing - two months, tops. Remain incognito, find what they needed, and continue running. But Dakan and his family never factored in the wolves of Beacon Hills, they were never involved in the plan. Now this one major slip is going to cost them, and Dakan stands to lose everything. Takes place in season 3

* * *

Dakan Farraige was really fucking hoping he'd get to have a fairly normal year, for variety's sake. But that particular dream was shot point blank the moment Scott McCall walked into the classroom.

It was, quite frankly, ridiculous that this keeps happening to him. Every time he asked to be left out of the constant mess of his world, the mess just enveloped him out of sheer spite. And it seemed this year it would be no different. _Should've known this would happen,_ he kept telling himself. _Should've been prepared to dive right back into the thick of it._ He half thought about standing up and walking out of the door right there; the teacher hadn't arrived yet, it could work. Or maybe just crack open the pane of glass next to him and swan dive out the window. The latter was seriously looking attractive at this point. He shook his head and scowled at the culprit of his anger. The black haired teen was just grinning at his stupid friend sitting next to him. "Son of a bitch," Dakan muttered. Everything was just _fine_ until this idiot showed up.

He'd arrived at the school fairly early; as a new student not starting in the lowest year, he'd had to meet with the principal before school. The principal seemed like a decent if no-nonsense sort of guy, though he just would not stop talking. The man went on about how the school works, his timetable and the like. Dakan just nodded along and zoned out, eager to explore his new school. At the moment, he was especially keen to escape the principal's droning on about protocols Dakan didn't really need to know. He was frowning at what looked like a sword hilt peeking from behind the desk when the butchering of his last name brought him back to reality.

"Mr... Far-age?" asked Principal Thomas.

"Farraige. Like 'fa-ra-gerh'," Dakan explained. "It's Irish."

"Oh yes well, as I was saying, as a junior, you have a great range of extra-curricular activities to choose from." Dakan supposed that was his first task of becoming accustomed to life in an American high school - figuring out how to occupy himself. "We have chess club, debating, and of course sports." Dakan was horrible at sports, and while he didn't think he was actually that bad at chess, and he could sweet-talk his way out of a shit storm, it crossed his mind that immediately going for the two dorkiest things might not win him any popularity points.

"Ugh let's start with sports?"

So now there he was, walking to his locker, with instructions on how to join various sporting teams crumpled in his hand. He gathered the little paper ball and lobbed it into a bin across the hall as he passed it. It skirted around the rim of the bin before finally falling down. _Heh, maybe I should rethink the basketball team._ After then getting lost three separate times, he found his locker just as the first period bell rang. "Shit shit shit shit _shit_ ," he chanted. Mercifully, it only took him two tries to get the right combination. He scrambled at the necessary books before slamming his locker shut and running off in what he hoped was the right direction for English.

The teacher wasn't there when he appeared at the doorway for the right classroom, but he could tell by the few seats left that he was almost late. He quickly rushed to one of the remaining seats by the large window, sat down and let out the breath he didn't realise he was holding. So far so good, it seemed. It was strange, getting a fresh start after all he'd been through. He kept expecting people to stop talking and stare, or to point and speak in hushed whispers, but there was no reason for them to. In their minds, sure, being the new kid warranted some attention but beyond that there was _nothing else_. He was just another normal junior about to start another (hopefully) normal year. He brought what his father told him earlier that morning to the front of his mind.

 _"Remember why we're here Dakan. We're just getting what we need and leaving. The only reason you're going to school is to blend in as much as possible. Don't make friends, just keep your eyes on the board, and_ don't _draw attention to yourself."_

Dakan was chanting his father's instructions when Scott McCall walked in with his friend. Dakan only gave him a glance before fumbling around his pocket looking for his buzzing phone. Fairly attractive guy, olive skin and black hair, nice golden eyes. His eyes drifted down to his phone, the text from his mother-

Wait, golden eyes?

Dakan choked on air, and started hacking in a coughing fit. Everyone looked at him, including the guy in question. A look of concern was plastered on his face, and Dakan saw fit to continue coughing. With the guy looking right at him, there was no denying that he had shining golden eyes. He became acutely aware of everyone staring at him, and tried his best to stifle the coughs.

 _Don't draw attention to yourself._

"You okay dude?" Gold Eyes asked. Dakan furrowed his face and gave a thumbs up.

"Do you need some water?" Dakan shook his head at the offer and brought out his own drink bottle out of his backpack, before taking several large gulps.

"I'm good man, thanks."

The boy smiled at him before opening his mouth to speak again. "You must be new, I haven't seen you here before. I'm Scott."

 _Don't make friends._

 _Well shit what do I do?_ "Dakan," he replied, before he started furiously rummaging through his bag, pretending quite badly to be busy. Scott just looked in confusion at this new kid, then quickly turned around when Stiles started talking to him.

 _Just keep your eyes on the board._

But Dakan couldn't help it, and kept staring at this kid named Scott as the coughs died. He had the golden eyes of a werewolf- a _werewolf._ What the hell was a werewolf doing here? There weren't meant to be any werewolves in this town - anymore, at least. They'd known about Beacon Hills' infamous history with the supernatural, of course - it was the whole reason him and his parents came here - but that was just it, it was meant to be _history_. Their information had told them that all of the wolves in Beacon Hills had died years ago; some house fire or something.

Apparently their information was wrong.

He sat there, unsure what to do. He had just managed to piss all over his father's advice within the first five minutes of his actual school life, which was an achievement in of itself. He definitely had to tell his parents immediately, but he was in class, and while the teacher still hadn't arrived yet he didn't know when they'd come and he didn't want to be caught on the phone as they walked in.

Scott talking snapped him out of his stupor. "No- nononono, it's all you- all yours. It's totally vacant." The girl he was talking to grinned as she sat down, and Scott's friend gave him the smuggest thumbs up Dakan had ever seen. He looked back and forth between the girl and Scott, and judged by the way he was staring at the back of her head that he had a thing for her.

 _Bzzz!_

Dakan looked down at his phone and squinted at the cryptic message he'd received. "The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness." A pair of heels clacked against the floor as a thin brunette woman walked through the door, reading out loud off a phone. She leaned against the desk at the front of the room and smiled at the class.

"This is the last line to the first book we're going to read," she said as she raised her hand and displayed the mobile in it. "It is also the last text you will receive in this class. Phones off, people."

 _It's not like I had anyone to text me anyways,_ Dakan mused. He looked back down at his phone. He desperately needed to tell his parents that there were still wolves in Beacon Hills. He looked up at the teacher, who was scanning over the classroom, making sure everyone had put down their phones. "Fuck," he muttered, and switched his off.

* * *

It had almost been half an hour since class started, and Dakan was losing his mind. Scott had left for some reason or another almost as soon as the lesson actually started, so at least Dakan wasn't staring creepily at him wishing he'd go away. But instead, his fixation turned to the boy's friends. Did they _know_? Were they themselves werewolves? They didn't have the glowing eyes of one like Scott, but it wasn't like there weren't ways to conceal their eyes if they knew how.

Scott's presence - well, more so his 'condition' - in Beacon Hills was a worrying sign. The supernatural was on the rise again in this town, and Dakan really wouldn't normally give a shit, so long as he wasn't in it as it was. It could be that Mr 'Golden Eyes' was a loner, an Omega he thought they called themselves, but that would probably be a best-case scenario, and knowing his luck it probably wasn't so. No, a whole pack would probably be here in this town to wreck havoc upon him.

Dakan looked at the three friends Scott appeared to have in the classroom. The brunette girl who sat in front of him, the boy - Stiles, he thought he heard him be called, and a redhead girl in front of Dakan that Stiles had been whispering to. Perhaps indeed they were all werewolves, and just knew how to hide their eyes. He'd heard that it was easier to turn teenagers from his parents; their rapidly changing bodies helped facilitate the drastic human to werewolf shift, and lessened the chance of death slightly. If there was a pack full of teenagers running around, he reckoned they'd all stick with pack at school.

He chewed slightly at the end of his pen. But if they were in fact all wolves, why was Scott the only one who didn't know how to conceal his eyes from those like Dakan who can see them? Perhaps he hadn't learnt how to yet, or perhaps he was just being lax. It was a pretty advanced technique though, so unless this bunch of teenagers had an old and powerful Alpha, it wasn't too likely that a few wolves in high school knew how to do it. Maybe or maybe not, but either way it was worth keeping an eye on them.

Dakan jumped in his seat and swore as a loud crash sounded from his left. He looked over at the window, where a mass of red blood and feathers was smashed against one of the glass panes. The whole class looked up with him, some pinching their faces in disgust at the mess on the window, while others amazingly just went back to work.

The bird had come out of nowhere. He looked past the blood, trying to see where it had come from, and his eyes widened at what he saw. Hundred of small black dots littered the sky, and were getting larger. A whole cloud seemed to form from them. When the faint sound of cawing hit the room, Dakan realised that they were crows. He looked to the teacher - Ms Blake - who walked over to stare out the window. He watched the mix of confusion and fear hit her face as she too saw what he did. She looked back at the class, her mouth agape. The second bird then hit the window, nobody going back to work this time.

The third crow smashed against the glass; then the fourth, then the fifth and the sixth. Everyone jumped out of their chairs as the birds kept assailing the window with their bodies. Dakan's eyes widened as one of the birds hit the window hard, the clear glass cracking like a spiderweb around it. More and more panes began to spiderweb, until most had cracked.

Then all hell broke loose.

The glass, no longer strong enough to withstand the assault, shattered as the full brunt of the giant crazed flock of crows hit it. A girl behind him screamed as the birds swarmed to classroom, scratching and pecking everyone in the room. The teacher screamed for everyone to get down from her position under her desk, clutching another student close to her. Dakan slid under his desk, and watched the chaos unfold. Boys were swatting unsuccessfully at the air, some girls screamed as crows tore at their hair with their claws, while others had the sense to listen to their teacher and hide under the desks.

He turned his head and was met with a mass of black feathers in his face, the animal's beak hitting him hard enough to split the skin on his forehead. He shouted in pain and fell backwards onto the floor. Already a small rivulet of blood was flowing down from the cut above his eye. He swiped at his face, trying to clear his eyes of blood.

He could still hear his fellow students screaming, yelling, crying. He could still feel the birds scratching at his skin.

 _All right, I've had enough of this._

He crawled out from under the desk, feeling along the ground for what he needed. He tried opening his eyes once or twice to make the whole process easier, but was immediately reminded by the bird's talons why being blind wouldn't exactly be an exciting future. His hands patted the floor as he moved, feeling fallen papers, pens and feathers before finally finding what he needed. Once he felt it in his hand, he risked opening his eyes and dived under an empty desk nearby, and looked at his 'prize'.

The dead crow was an ugly mess - its wing was bent at an awkward angle, and its neck was broken - but it would suffice. _Blood, I need blood_ , he thought. When the cut above his eye dripped into his eye again, Dakan was immediately thankful for the bird smashing itself into his face. _At least I won't have to cut myself now._ He wiped his hand all over the cut, until his fingers were covered in the red liquid. As he held his bloody fingers over the crow's body, he looked around one last time, halfway between making sure and hoping no one was watching him. He took a breath, and began speaking what he _thought_ were the correct words.

The thing about Words of Power, is that they're arguably useless. It's more about the meaning you put behind them, the desperate intention of what you want to happen. A lot of the kind of things that Dakan was about to do comes from just sort of _thinking really hard._ And yet the Words and the accompanying rituals were important - if you don't want to fuck up horrifically, that is.

Because while the actual power comes from the hoping of the caster, the Words give the intention direction and focus. Just hoping isn't enough, it's too easy for it to get confused and mess up. So the correct Words, in the correct order, said with the correct actions clarify the intention, and prevent someone trying to stop their cut bleeding from accidentally stopping their entire cardiovascular system.

So that's how Dakan found himself; with a dead crow in one hand, his other bloody, and hoping what he wanted to happen happened while also hoping he didn't colossally screw up.

No pressure.

 _"Gaoth beithíoch sclábhaí toil,"_ he whispered. He squeezed one of his fingers, forcing the blood coating it to drip down into one of the bird's eyes. _"Gaoth beithíoch sclábhaí toil."_ He repeated the motion, dripping another drop of his blood into the other eye. _"Gaoth beithíoch sclábhaí toil,"_ he repeated a final time. He dropped the bird, hoping again no one saw him, and closed his eyes, wishing the birds to submit to his will.

At that moment, all the cawing and the crows' shrieking stopped, just as Dakan wanted. What he didn't expect to happen though, was all the birds to silently fly full-speed into the nearest wall, desk or hard surface; kamikazi-ing themselves and committing bird suicide. _That's a little bit darker than what I meant by 'remove yourselves',_ Dakan thought, eyes wide.

* * *

"I've gotta ask, Sheriff, does this kind of stuff happen often in this town?" Dakan asked. He was sitting on one of the tables in the room, pressing a giant wad of tissues against his forehead.

The Sheriff looked up at him from his notepad, and frowned. "It's starting to," he said. "Is that all?"

"Yeah," he replied.

"Right, well thank you for your statement." Dakan watched as the Sheriff walked over to Stiles, who'd he learned was the man's son. He looked over at the other boy, and raised an eyebrow when he saw that he was watching Dakan like a hawk. As soon as they made eye contact, Stiles' head quickly turned back down to his phone. Despite the guy's entire posture signaling he wasn't looking, he could tell he was watching Dakan out of the corner of his eye. Dakan looked away, trying to figure out what ever the hell _that_ was for.

With the Sheriff's permission, he got up off the table and walked out of the room. All the students from his class were let home, and he was already tired of this god-forsaken school and its weird supernatural or not shit. _It has taken_ one _hour to break my excitement for school in America, what an achievement,_ he thought, sighing. He entered the combination to his locker, and miracle of all miracles, he got it first try. It seemed even the universe knew when to stop testing his limits. Dumping his books in the tin cabinet, he slammed the door shut and leaned against it.

"Where's Scott McCall?!"

Dakan's head whipped around.

"You're Allison, right? Where's Scott?" Down the hall, a woman was standing in front of Lydia and the brunette girl- Allison. Her black hair looked disheveled, and her dark skin looked discoloured and clammy. Allison was startled by the look in her eyes. It wasn't fear exactly, but something more like urgency. Desperate urgency.

Dakan tried to listen in on the conversation from his spot against his locker, but they had quieted down enough for him to have to try and guess what they were saying. The mystery woman's hand shot out and grabbed Allison's wrist, squeezing tightly. When Lydia tried to object, she repeated the motion with her instead. Dakan frowned, confused at the woman's death-grip on the two girls. She was looking up now, past Lydia and Allison to the other end of the hall. He slowly turned his head, wondering what the hell had this woman so spooked. At the opposite end, two twin guys were staring straight back at the woman, apparently trying to do their best interpretation of ' _The Shining_ '.

The woman harshly shoved the girls' hands away from her, and walked away, her eyes never leaving the twins. Allison walked after her, trying to see where she was going, and lost her immediately. Lydia turned with a slight frown on her face, trying to see what the Scary Lady was looking at, but only saw two boys turning the corner. Dakan, however, had wasted no time in following the woman. Just who the hell was this woman? Why had she gone looking for the werewolf of Beacon Hills High? He knew he didn't want to even risk following her, but if a mysterious and frazzled-looking woman wanted something to do with a werewolf, not knowing _what_ exactly could spell danger for his family. He had to find out.

 _Curiosity killed the cat,_ he tried telling himself.

He watched as the woman disappeared into the empty boys change-room, slamming the door shut behind her.

 _Yeah, but satisfaction brought it back._

He walked up to the door, his palm on the handle when he heard heavy footsteps about to round the corner. He looked around, trying to find a hiding space, and leapt behind another entry to the corridor. He crouched down, making himself as small and invisible as possible while still keeping a look out.

He wasn't entirely surprised to see the two ' _Shining_ ' twins from earlier, but he wasn't expecting them to be followed by two adults. One, a mountain of a man with a shaved head; and the other a small, athletic-looking woman walking barefoot. Her toenails were grossly overgrown, and with horror he realised these weren't nails but claws. Werewolf claws. Their heads were all turned away from him, but as they filed into the change room one-by-one, he had just enough of an angle to catch their eyes.

Their red, glowing eyes.

All of them.

He covered his mouth to keep himself from crying out. Four Alphas - _four of them -_ in Beacon Hills. He wanted to scream. This was too risky. They never should have come to this town, nothing was worth it. Not even that god-forsaken tree.

The sounds of crashing and fighting from inside the boys change room reminded him of his current situation. He wanted to run, but there was no telling if the Alphas would hear him and follow is erratic heart beat. It was probably only their singular focus on the woman inside that kept them from discovering him in the corridor. Though he realised that if he stayed here, the chances of them not finding him when they came out of the room were worse than if he just ran. Basically, he was probably fucked either way.

He was psyching himself up when he heard a gentle tapping getting louder. He risked a peek around the corner, trying to find the source. A man with dark shades over his eyes was swinging a cane against the floor in front of him, heading straight for the change room. A blind man. Heading for the same room that the wolves were all in. He'd be slaughtered.

Dakan wanted to yell out to the man, wanted to warn him to stay out of the room, wanted to tell him of the danger; but instinct stopped him. His father's voice was in his head again. _"Don't risk yourself for anybody else, Dakan. It's probably never worth it. Well, unless it's family. You should probably help your family."_

So Dakan watched as the blind man found the door handle, and let himself inside - knowing that he probably just allowed the poor man to walk to his death.

The sounds of fighting had stopped shortly after the man had walked in. The Alphas had probably finished with the woman and were now finishing him. His thoughts were confirmed when he heard a yell silenced before it could be heard beyond the empty corridor. But Dakan heard. The door swung open, and the twins walked out, followed by the massive man and the woman.

And then the blind man.

He stared in shocked as he walked out of the room, grinning. His snapped his folded cane out, and slipped his tinted shades over his blood red eyes.

So he was with them.

The blind werewolf slipped his hand into the crook of the woman's arm, and smiled as she led him away. Dakan waited several moments before daring to even look out from his hiding spot. With the coast seemingly clear, his attention turned to the change room door - still open slightly and creaking - and the dead silence within. He got up from his crouching position and stepped lightly over to the door, his fingers feeling the cold metal of the handle. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It took him a while to find the woman, but when he did, he almost yelled in bloody surprise. She was propped up against a set of lockers, her eyes closed and head rolled forward. She was sitting in a pool of blood - her own probably, considering the three deep slashes against her throat. A large spray of blood was on the wall next to her. She had every right to be dead, so he almost yelled a second time when her eyes fluttered open and looked up at him. He lips parted, and it took her a couple of moments before she could get out what she wanted. "H-help...me..."

Dakan watched eyes wide as her head collapse against the lockers, as if those two words cost all the energy she had left.

 _Should've known this would happen,_ he told himself. _Should've been prepared to dive right back into the thick of it._


	2. Chapter 2 - A Visit to the Vet

**Summary:** It was supposed to be a quick, in-and-out thing - two months, tops. Remain incognito, find what they needed, and continue running. But Dakan and his family never factored in the wolves of Beacon Hills, they were never involved in the plan. Now this one major slip is going to cost them, and Dakan stands to lose everything. Takes place in season 3.

* * *

"I'd honestly appreciate it if you didn't bleed out in my car."

The girl only groaned in response. Her eyes kept fluttering shut, her hands barely had the strength to hold the towel Dakan had found in the change room to her heavily bleeding neck. He looked back to her from the road as her hands fell from her throat a fifth time. "No no!" he said forcefully. "Keep pressure on it." She didn't respond this time, hands limp and head rolling back in the passenger seat next to him. He picked up the already blood-soaked towel from her lap, and tried to apply pressure to the three gaping slashes; one hand on the wheel, the other weakly held against her throat.

They were going at least twenty over in a sixty zone - thankful there were no cops in sight - and trying as best as Dakan could to stick to the uncrowded back roads before reaching the hospital. His mother, a registered nurse, had made sure to point out where she would be working to her children, in case they'd needed to find her in an emergency.

Well, Dakan was pretty sure this constituted as an emergency.

They were still at least ten minutes from their destination, and for all of his excessive speeding, he wasn't sure that the girl would make it. He glanced back at her again, and swore when he saw that she was barely moving. He swerved to the side of the road quickly, earning a couple beeps from the few other cars on the road. He wrenched the handbrake up and jumped out of the car, sliding over the hood of the car to get to the other side. When he swung the passenger door open, the girl practically fell on him and out the car. He huffed as he lifted her back onto her seat to check her condition.

She wasn't moving that much, her breathing extremely shallow. Her dark skin had lost so much colour, lips pale and all. But he was most alarmed from her closed eyes. They weren't even trying to remain open anymore. While he was no trained medical professional, Dakan had picked up more than a few things from his mother, and he was pretty sure going to sleep after extreme blood loss wasn't a good idea. He lightly slapped her face. "Heyheyheyhey stay with me, come on!" She merely exhaled and moved her head a bit.

She was going to die soon; right here, right now, if he didn't do something.

Dakan bit his lip, pondering if what he was about to do was wise. He didn't want to expose himself to anyone, much less someone with obvious knowledge of the supernatural. _Fuck it_ , he thought. A mysterious girl was already dying in his car, it's not like things could get any more incriminating.

He removed the towel from her neck, the blood again flowing freely with nothing to resist against it. He can heal with his powers alone simple things - cuts, bruises, maybe even a small fracture - but without material components, there was no way he could force the torn and ripped tissue of this woman's neck to stitch itself back together again. _But,_ he thought, _you can slow the bleeding._

He put his hand to the girl's neck, shuddering at the feeling of the open wound beneath it. He closed his eyes and winced, begging for the second time that day to not screw up. _"Fórsa beatha moilligh_ _sruthaigh_ _créacht."_

Removing the hand, Dakan watched as the blood slowed significantly. Not enough so it would kill her, thank god, but enough so that she wouldn't bleed out for at least the next half hour - as long as the incantation lasted. The nice 'Goldilocks' zone that the blood flow from her wound currently existed in gave him some measure of confidence. It seemed more... manageable. He held the towel up to her neck again, and with one fumbling hand undid his belt. He wrapped it around her neck, and tightened it against the red-stained cloth as tight as he dared. He blanched when he looked up at her face and realised she was struggling to breathe, and loosened the belt by a couple holes. Satisfied with his work, he made sure this time to put on her seat belt, before closing the door and running back to the driver's seat.

He was surprised when the girl gingerly tapped his hand as he was about to shift the car into gear. He turned to her, concerned. She grimaced in return, and slowly managed to mouth 'thank you'. He nodded , turned back to the road, and then paused to look back to her. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Braeden," she mustered, clearing her throat a couple times.

"Braeden, we need to get you to a hospital."

She wildly shook her head, an amazing feat considering she was two steps from death a second ago. "N-no, no. No hospital."

"Listen sweetheart, I passed First Aid with flying colours, but _this_ ," he said, gesturing to her torn neck, "is not something I'm equipped to deal with."

She glared at him with all the power she could gather, and impressively spoke again. "Dr... Alan Deaton."

"Dr Deaton? Well you better hope he's at Beacon Hills Memorial because you are not gonna have the time to wait for him."

"No... idiot. He's a vet," Braeden gasped.

He looked at her in disbelief. "You're serious? You want to go to a veterinarian's to fix up Freddy Krueger's little slash-job?" Dakan shook his head at her, incredulous. He was pretty sure that she'd gone mad with blood loss or something.

She looked at him flatly.

"Well okay then."

* * *

Finding Deaton's clinic wasn't that hard - a couple searches on Google really - but it was far enough away to have Dakan worried whether or not they'd make it in time before their thirty minutes were up. The drive was silent, he'd urged Braeden not to talk and aggravate her injury. He wasn't sure if it actually would though, but he sure as shit sounded confident enough when he said it that she stopped trying to talk soon after. He occasionally poked her in the ribs every now and then to make sure her silence wasn't death, and only when she'd groan back in annoyance would he refocus on finding the damn veterinarian's.

When he pulled into the vet's parking lot, Dakan looked for other cars before hopping out, not wanting to have to answer the obvious question of "Why the hell would you bring a severely injured woman on the verge of death to a veterinarian's?" Finding only one other in a spot reserved for "Dr A. Deaton", he stepped out and opened Braeden's door. Her head was rolled forward against the seat belt, and blood was dripping steadily again from where the towel didn't cover all the slashes. Panicked, he tried shaking her. When no response was achieved, he swallowed and looked at the time display. 11:23am.

Their thirty minutes was up.

He hastily undid her seat belt. If he didn't get her into the vet's _now_ and let the doctor do whatever the hell he was supposed to do, she was a goner. He picked her up and grunted. While Dakan wasn't a skinny weak dude by any means, that much dead weight resting in his arms was enough to have him struggling to the door. He kicked it open, inside to the warm interior. The room consisted of a small reception, and he saw a wooden swinging gate that blocked the opening the the back, where he hoped the doctor would be. "SOMEBODY HELP ME HERE!" he roared. He didn't wait for a response. He barged over to the gate, intending to kick it open like the reception door before, and was confused when his foot never connected.

Braeden's body in his arms blocked his view of his feet, so he couldn't see what the problem was. He tried again, this time kicking as hard as he could. With the extra force behind his attack on the gate, Dakan could tell his foot wasn't just not connecting, it was being _repelled_. He thought he knew what was going on now. He set Braeden down on her feet, wrapping her arm around his shoulders so he able to prop her arm while having his right hand free. Curling all fingers but his index into his palm, he slowly raised his hand to close the gap between his body and the gate. He counted to three, and tentatively tapped the air above the gate.

A flash of blue and white energy surrounded where his finger touched, rocketing Dakan's hand back to his side. His teeth clenched as zapping electric pain raced through his arm, like he'd just been shocked by an electric fence. He turned his head and looked around at the reception, and saw his suspicions were confirmed. Wooden panels covered the entirety of the walls, except around the door. All the walls and the small balustrade the gate connected to were painted, hiding its wood, but he could guess what kind it was. Mountain ash. The whole office was lined with mountain ash.

 _Shit, so he's_ this _kind of doctor_.

Braeden was human, he was pretty sure, so she should be able to pass over the gate, but there was no way Dakan would be able to. He looked up, and realised they weren't alone. Down the hall from the gate, just outside one of the doors, a man - Deaton, he presumed - was watching him. The sleeves of his buttoned shirt were rolled up past his forearms, and in his right hand he gripped a scalpel defensively.

As if the overkill barrier of mountain ash wasn't enough to protect him.

"You're a druid," Dakan stated.

"And you are...?" the man replied, trailing off.

Dakan looked at him for a moment, about to contest this guy, until he remembered the girl dying at his shoulder.

"Needing your help," he said, gesturing to Braeden. Deaton's eyes locked with his, like they were piercing his soul. Dakan didn't know if perfect judgement of character was one of the druids' special gifts, but either way he knew when the man didn't move that he was unconvinced. Dakan grew desperate, Braeden's grip on him was getting slacker by the moment. "Please," he said, "she's human, she doesn't deserve this."

The man's eyes studied him once more, watching the pleading expression on his face. He wordlessly dropped the surgical blade, walking over and unlatching the gate. Dakan thanked him, before stepping over the threshold. Deaton quickly led him over to the treatment room; Dakan practically dragging Braeden now as he speed-walked hunched over from the added weight.

They set Braeden down as gently as they could on the cool metal table, Deaton immediately putting on a pair of disposable gloves and preparing his equipment - bandages, swabs and stitches all placed in a pan. He removed the boy's awkward attempt at a tourniquet, and cut away with scissors at the young woman's blood-soaked shirt that concealed half the wound. He winced in sympathy as he peeled the shirt off her upper torso, some of the ripped material had sunken into the wound, and was sticking to the inside of her flesh.

Deaton was shocked by the extent of this girl's injuries; she was battered and bruised, her knuckles blue giving evidence of a fight. But then there was the immediate problem; three large diagonal slashes - claw marks, he gathered - running from the bottom of her left cheek to the top of her right breast, next to the armpit. He got to work, and began cleaning the wound with a wet cloth so he could assess the situation better. More blood spilled out though, and the poor girl was loosing too much of it, fast, faster than he would've liked.

He sterilised a needle, and was about to begin the massive amount of sutures the girl would need when the sound of loud rummaging came to his ears. He looked up, and saw the blonde boy who accompanied the girl madly going through his veterinarian supplies, ripping open cupboard doors, searching through and then moving on to the next one. Deaton set the surgical instrument down, and observed the boy. "What on earth are you looking for?" he calmly asked.

The boy didn't even bother to turn around and face him, just continued searching through Deaton's supplies. "You're a druid right?" he said, not waiting for a reply before continuing. "Where's your druid stuff? Your herbs? Anything?!" He stopped rummaging through one cabinet, and threw out a few surgical pans before reaching deep into the back and pulling out something. Deaton heard the clink of stone, and when the blonde boy turned around he saw him setting down a grey marble mortar and pestle on the bench. "Look mate, this girl was attacked by an entire pack of werewolves, and instead of going to a hospital like a normal person, she wanted to come here. You know _something_ ; to what degree, I don't care, but she came to _you_ for help."

Deaton did that thing with his eyes again, like he was judging whether or not to trust Dakan. "Listen, Doc, this girl has lost a lot of blood, and even if you sew her up there is still a high possibility that she will die!" he shouted, angry now that this man wasn't helping him. His fists clenched, and he let out a long breath, willing himself to calm the fuck down. "I'm trying to help her too, but I can't do it without your plants and herbs. Please," Dakan sighed.

Deaton nodded, and motioned to one of the unsearched cabinets. "Bottom row, third one from the left." Dakan thanked him. Upon searching the cabinet, he found a tray filled with jars of herbs, flowers and plants, some ground and some not, but each one with a different druidic symbol on the lid. It reminded him of home, slightly. He pulled it out and set it on the bench near the table Braeden was on, placing it next to the mortar and pestle. He looked back at Deaton, who'd after cleaning the wound had begun the stitches.

That was Deaton's work, now it was time for his. lit

He searched through the rack of plant parts for his particular need. He stopped when he came across one symbol: one horizontal line with two diagonal lines intersecting. _Ivy._ He unscrewed the lid, and poured the small chunks of ivy stems into the marble mortar. Dakan stuck his fingers into the jar and pulled out a few rolled leaves of the plant out as well. He held his left hand over the filled mortar, and whispered a word.

 _"Díhiodráitigh."_

The stems shrank in on themselves and cracked, and the leaves shriveled and hardened. With every bit of moisture removed from the plants, his next task would be easier. He began crushing them with the small grey pestle into smaller pieces. He was hitting them hard, Dakan knew, so hard that he wouldn't be surprised if the small stone bowl cracked beneath his hands. In other circumstances, he would've liked to have shown more restraint, but he didn't have the time for careful leisure. Every time he swirled the pestle in the bowl, the individual plant matter became smaller and smaller until finally he was happy.

The vet's supremely calm voice interrupted him. "Whatever you're doing, you had better hurry." Dakan looked back at the doctor, who'd already finished with the stitches while Dakan was focused on the ivy. The man was beginning to place gauze over Braeden's neck, until he told him to stop.

"Don't put on the gauze until I'm done, just trust me," Dakan said in a hurry. All his madness would be for nothing if he didn't apply the substance directly to the wound.

Deaton nodded, and motioned for him to continue.

Dakan stepped over the sink, and filled the empty ivy jar with water. He held it up to his lips, and tipped as much as he could hold into his mouth. It wasn't pretty, it tasted like leaves and plants thanks to the small bits of ivy still in the jar, but he grimaced and held it in his swelled cheeks. He began swishing it around in his mouth, mixing the water with his saliva. It was gross, no question, but it was necessary; saliva was one of the essential ingredients of the Healer's Paste he was making.

With the somewhat disgusting ivy-spit water done swishing, he leaned over the table, mouth over the mortar, and slowly dribbled the water out of his mouth. With the pestle, he mixed the water with the crushed ivy, mixing and mixing until a thick paste was formed. Dakan stopped dribbling, and spat the excess out of the sink. He poured over the tray of herbs again, this time searching for the flowers of cowslip. It was easier to find, the bright yellow of the flowers alerting him almost immediately to their position.

Grabbing one flower from the jar, he squashed it between his hands as if he was praying. He started rolling it around between them like play dough, breaking up the soft petals into fragments. He held his hands over the paste, and began whispering more Words of Power as he let the small yellow pieces of flower slip from his palms into the paste. _"Cneasaigh an corp, athlíon an fórsa beatha._ _Cneasaigh an corp, athlíon an fórsa beatha._ _Cneasaigh an corp, athlíon an fórsa beatha."_

As the petal pieces fell onto the paste, they sank and were absorbed. But they weren't done. As Dakan chanted, the bright yellow colour bled from the petals, turning the ivy paste around them from a dull brown-green to a bright, searing yellow, as the cowslip flowers had been. The yellow swirled around the pasty substance like watercolour on canvas, and when Dakan stopped chanting, satisfied, the swirling ceased, and the colour set.

Dakan smiled, finished at his work. He wasn't the best at healing concoctions, that was his mother's speciality. Even his little sister was better than him, and she was eleven. But he was done, and he'd done it successfully judging by the insistent yellow of the substance. He picked up the bowl, and turned to set the mortar down on the metal table next to Braeden's head. He looked to Deaton, who in turn was watching him curiously, probably studying this remedy for later replication. With three fingers, Dakan scooped up some of the paste, and wiped it onto Braeden's neck. He spread it over the harsh slashes from the werewolves, now stitched up by the doctor across from him, creating an even coat. He spread it down over her right shoulder, careful to cover every bit of the wound.

When he thought that was enough, he stood up straight, and nodded to Deaton. The man then finally put the gauze over Braeden's wounds and the Healer's Paste, then wrapped it all up with white bandages. After tying it off, the other man then took his turn to stand up and sighed, looking over to Dakan.

"Do you know her?" the man asked.

"No, only her name. You?"

"Braeden," Deaton said. "She's a mercenary. I've met with her a couple times before. How did this happen?"

"Werewolves. A whole pack of 'em, like I said. All alphas," Dakan answered, rubbing his forehead.

Deaton sank slightly against his desk on the opposite side of the room. "What are they doing in Beacon Hills?"

"Beats me, I don't know. All I know is they're a danger."

Deaton made eye contact with the boy, and he was surprised by the tiredness in the young man's eyes. It appeared it wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with such danger before. It was sad, seeing someone so young in this position. Kids like him should be going to parties and stressing over the PSATs, not worrying for their lives due to mythical creatures.

Dakan felt uncomfortable under the man's gaze, so he instead focused on Braeden. Her breathing was steadier now, and colour was already returning to her face. The Healer's Paste should help with the healing process and fight infection, but more importantly it would ramp up the production of blood to replace the quantities she had lost. That would take energy from the already battered woman, and it'd be some time before she'd wake up. He needed to leave soon, well before she'd awake, but he needed to talk to her, needed to find out what she knew, if anything.

So Dakan did something he'd probably live to regret; he decided to trust a stranger.

Grabbing a notebook on a shelf, he crossed over to Deaton and grabbed a pen from his desk. "This," he said, scrawling down a line of digits, "is my phone number. When she wakes up I want you to call me, I need to talk to her." He ripped the page from the spiral notebook, folded it and handed it to Deaton. The vet glanced down at the parchment, and nodded to Dakan, who exited into the hallway.

"How did you figure it out, that I'm a druid?"

Dakan paused, and grinned at the doctor. "Your whole damn office is lined with mountain ash. That's an old trick, and a pretty specific one. 'S the only reason I'm trusting you with this. Your lot is meant to protect the peace and all."

"Would you like to know how I figured out what _you_ are?" The boy stiffened in front of him, and slight fear crossed his eyes. He'd guessed that the man would realise that Dakan was supernaturally inclined, he'd seen Dakan unable to cross the mountain ash barrier, but he'd hoped against hope that the man wasn't clever enough to put the pieces together. Obviously he didn't give Dr Deaton enough credit.

"When I saw that you were unable to cross the barrier, I thought you were just a werewolf. But then I saw you with my herbs, the chanting, the Irish... how that substance you made changed colour like magic. Tell me, what is a hag of your kind doing this far from the ocean? What are you looking for?"

"Looking for something, yes, but it's more of something else..." Dakan trailed off. The grin from before was ghostly replicated on his face, a sad smile that couldn't quite reach his eyes.

"What else are you doing here in Beacon Hills?" the doctor asked, frowning.

"Running."

* * *

 **Well there's chapter dos. I had to end it there otherwise I'd just keep writing and I told myself that I'll limit it to about 4000 words per chapter (so I can get these out somewhat regularly)**

 **Anyway, I just gotta say this...**

 **I would personally like to apologise to the entire nation of Ireland for the dishonour I have done to your beautiful language. As I myself am not an Irish speaker, and know no one who is, I've had to resort to an English-Irish translator which I _think/hope_ is reliable as well as the odd regrettable use of Google Translate. I assure you, there is a reason that your tongue is being disgraced in such a way and it shall be revealed at some point in the future.**

 **Sincerely,**

 **~ Offreus**


End file.
